


These are the Days of Miracle and Wonder

by thought



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, F/F, Unapologetic Withnail and I reference, Zoe Morgan is better than you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5802502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2005 Zoe Morgan was the best that Root's limited social capital could buy. 2014 Zoe Morgan is the best, and Root's no longer buying.</p><p>Root needs to calm the fuck down. Zoe has some ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These are the Days of Miracle and Wonder

**Author's Note:**

> I've been talking about Root/Zoe for over two months, as anyone who follows my tumblr is aware. Free me.  
> Set mid season 3.  
> Korean translation [Here](http://duosion.tistory.com/8)

In 2005 Root spends five minutes on the telephone with Zoe Morgan to ensure a particularly dedicated judge won't go poking his nose where it doesn't belong. In 2014 Root spends three hours on her back in Zoe Morgan's bed shaking her way through four orgasms and a mild anxiety attack. These two points on an otherwise uninterrupted timeline hold no connection to each other beyond the demonstration of two lives running in parallel. 2005 Zoe Morgan was the best that Root's limited social capital could buy. 2014 Zoe Morgan is the best, and Root's no longer buying.

So Root's at this party, cocktails and drugs and politics in somebody's penthouse apartment, and The Machine says "Four o'clock. William Stratford. Born March 3, 1960, Boston, MA to Margaret Billings and John Stratford. Married to Anne Gable May 1 1980, divorced November 30, 1992. Current portfolio includes Decima Technologies. Current projections indicate successful merger with K-Tech Medical. Pre-2016, merger = undesirable outcome. Prioritize non-lethality."

The Machine says all that, and because it's that sort of party, free to those who can afford it etc. etc., there're no security cameras to notice when she tips a vial of white powder into Stratford's drink while he's in deep conversation with her breasts. Root has sacrificed the traditional brand of situational awareness-- a computerized voice in one ear and silence in the other, throwing herself towards transhumanist martyrdom for an audience of one. Eight trans-Atlantic flights in eight weeks means she's had a lot of time to practice lip reading and pain-management through over-priced alcohol. The powder dissolves, Stratford puts a hand on her hip, and Root and her thirty-year-old scotch flee to the balcony. Nobody's dead. Go team.

Root stares down over the iron lattice railing like she can actually make out something worth looking at through the twilight of light pollution. She hates the people at these parties (including herself) but after months of straight jackets and moralizing and throwing herself over burning coals in hopes that her god will notice, it still feels good to step back into a world where she's seen as an equal-- seen as dangerous because of her power rather than her instability. There's a couple sharing a cigarette on the far side of the balcony and thank fuck Root isn't prone to addiction. Her arms still itch. She could have really gone her entire life without being tortured.

The Machine doesn't tell her Zoe Morgan's five feet behind her until she says "Hello, Root," and Root almost drops her glass fifty stories. She turns around slowly more because she needs a minute to curse The Machine without looking crazy than out of any demonstration of affected apathy.

"That is your preference?" Morgan continues, taking two more steps and neatly boxing Root in against the corner of the railing. "I assume you burned the Turing identity as soon as it ceased to be useful."

"Ms. Morgan," Root says. "It's so nice to finally meet you in person."

"I'll refrain from saying the same until I know if I'm going to spend the rest of my evening filling out witness reports down at the precinct."

"He's not going to die," Root says. "And the symptoms are common enough for someone with his heart condition that no one will bother to look for an alternate explanation."

"That explains why I haven't had to rescue John. One day Harold is going to realize that most people can tell when a man's wearing a suit he can't afford."

Root leans back against the railing, feels the reassuring pressure of the taser tucked in the small of her back and the knife slid between her calf and the soft leather of her boot. Probably she should have known Morgan would be fucking Harry's pet. He's a null space, politically, and probably goes to his knees at a word. And if Morgan can recognize her on sight and knows about the Turing job there's a chance she knows everything. So that's fucking spectacular and possibly means Root is going to have to climb down fifty stories from this balcony in heels. She's not sure what Harry's feelings on her are at the moment, and while she's sure Shaw and The Machine will come to bat for her when push comes to shove there's a good chance that shove might be Root's body off a very high bridge. Which would at least be better than the cage.

"Calm down," Morgan says, amused. "I'm not interested in playing informant for whatever issues you and finch have to work out."

"So you just came over to say 'hi'? I'm flattered."

"Most people would be."

"Most people would be terrified," Root corrects her. Root is not most people.

Morgan shrugs. "Close enough under the right lighting."

Root blinks once, slowly, opens up her body language, sways a little closer. "Sounds like my kind of party."

Morgan clasps her hands behind her back. She's not holding a drink and Root's own glass suddenly feels like a flashing beacon of weakness. "I doubt that. Too many people, not enough bleeding."

"I never knew you were so kinky," Root coos.

"Of course you did. Just like you know that's not what I'm talking about."

"I can't help it-- a beautiful woman starts talking like that I don't know what else you'd expect me to think."

"What do you have against Decima Technologies?"

Root keeps her expression casual with an effort. The Machine is babbling warnings in her ear, because obviously the best way to help Root deal with the situation is to interfere with her one working ear. "Personally, nothing," she lies.

Zoe smiles a bit, just the corners of her mouth. "There it is," she says. "You see what I mean."

Root's heart pounds in her chest. She's never going to experience an adrenaline rush without bonus reminders of her own mortality, which is almost as awful as the bottle of medication zipped in the side pocket of her bag and successfully ignored for six weeks. Zoe waves a dismissive hand. "I don't actually care. Though it would be nice to know how long Stratford's going to be out of action."

"Nine months," Root says, words moving from her ear to her lips almost without conscious thought. She's getting better. Still not perfect, but there's time, and her god is both forgiving and desperate.

Morgan nods, like she's putting it in her mental calendar. Which is probably true, actually. There's no way she keeps records beyond the proof needed to blackmail.

"You're finished here, then."

"I don't know. I thought I might stick around, make friends. I love a good party." Root's lying through her teeth just for the sake of being contrary and Morgan clearly knows it.

She stares silently until Root looks away. "Right. I'll call a car."

"Don't bother on my account," Root says, stepping sideways along the railing, trying not to be obvious about it. "I'm a big girl, I can see myself home."

She does not actually know where home will be tonight. Morgan does not need to know that fun fact. Nobody needs to know, as it happens. The Machine will figure it out. She always does. Root owns three apartments in New York. She already knows she's not going to any of them.

Morgan doesn't move, let's her get out of the corner. Root almost thinks she's home free but when she starts to cross toward the door Morgan reaches out, easy and calm, strong, well-manicured fingers wrapping around Root's forearm. Her grip isn't rough, but it is firm, and Root finds herself frozen to the spot despite herself. "Root," Morgan says, still perfectly calm. "If you don't want to come home with me all you have to do is say no. I think we'd both enjoy it if you did, but I'm just as happy to go back in there and keep collecting information. I've already told you I'm not getting involved in whatever you and Finch have going on. You're free to do whatever you want."

Given the immense value and identity woven into her chosen name, there are a very few people who have the opportunity and willingness to use it. She spends so much of her life alone or as someone else that to be addressed directly by name is like being pointed out in a crowd, forcefully reminded of her own presence within the performance of each interaction. Also, she's still feeling contrary. Also, Zoe Morgan is really fucking hot.

"Well," she says, dragging the cadence of a drawl through her words. "For you I suppose I can spare a few hours."

Morgan nods briskly, lets her hand drop, fingertips trailing over the skin of her inner arm. She pulls her phone from her clutch, says a few words, --'very good, Jeeves, have them bring the car around', Christ, Root still really hates rich people-- then guides Root back inside with a hand barely brushing the small of her back. The taser must be obvious, but she doesn't seem concerned.

Morgan manages to make her goodbyes in a way that makes it clear she has something better to do without being insulting. Root trails after her, surprised by the lack of shame or degradation even as it's clear that she is that something. In the towncar she keeps the privacy screen between the driver and back seat up, but she doesn't use the privacy for anything, just spends the twenty minutes through traffic focused on her phone. Root watches familiar nighttime streets glide by and listens to The Machine's reassuring stream of information and slowly drags her composure back around her like putting on clothes when you're still wet from the shower. 

The condo building is the sort of understated upscale that Root had indulged in after she'd shaken off the small town nerves but before the money and the power stopped mattering in comparison to the challenge, the numbers and the code; and ok, listen, maybe Root wasn't doing so well even before she discovered The Machine. When the only thing her brain seemed good for were computers or thoughtfully imagining her own death, it only made sense to take the more productive option. The elevator is all mirrors and plush carpet and when Morgan leads her down the hall to her front door the only sound is their muffled footsteps. Root wants to empty the tenants' bank accounts purely on principle.

Zoe Morgan's apartment gives off the exact impression she intends it to. It's all chrome and glass in varying shades of modernist superiority. Morgan has chosen her character and allowed it to encompass every aspect of her life. Root can respect that.

"Drink?" Morgan asks. In the last two hours Root has fallen victim to three types of expensive scotch and a sparkling pink wine spritser courtesy of the investment banker and his ingrained sexism.

"Please," she says. The Machine buzzes displeasure in her ear. She ignores Her. It's a new thing she's trying. Testing boundaries. Seeing how far she can push Her before she walks away. Metaphorically, of course. Root perches on the edge of a leather sofa and folds her hands together on her knee to stop it bouncing.

Morgan stands at the bar with her back to Root. Ice and glass click on marble. Root could put a bullet in the back of her head in less time than it takes to shake a martini. The idea is soothing. Root has worked very hard the last thirteen years to insure that she's only under-estimated on her own terms. It's important to remember that Morgan has likely done the exact same, though Root finds it hard to imagine a situation in which being under-estimated would work to the fixer's advantage. Finds it hard to imagine the circumstances in which the issue would arise. Root has weaponized her perceived vulnerability. Morgan has made a career around the presumption of invulnerability.

Root takes a too-large sip when Morgan hands her the drink. She wishes she hadn't sat down-- she's given up her height advantage without even realizing. Sloppy. Embarrassingly so.

Morgan sits beside her, close but not crowding. Her dress is something silky and it slithers along the leather when she leans closer. "You know this is meant to be fun," she says, covering Root's hand on her knee and rubbing her thumb back and forth over the knob of bone at her wrist.

"Who says I'm not having fun?"

Morgan studies her for a moment. Root watches her back, thinks she sees plans forming and shattering and reforming behind her eyes. Finally Morgan takes her drink out of her hand and sets it on the table. Root's heart is still beating too quickly, reverberating up through her throat. Morgan carefully cups the side of her face, cool skin on cheeks Root hadn't realized were flushed. Morgan's still studying her like a puzzle she's close to solving, so Root takes the initiative back, leans forward and kisses her with that same deliberate surety that Morgan's been exuding all night.

The other woman's lipstick tastes waxy and expensive on the tip of her tongue, and when she opens for Root she tastes like the same expensive liquor Root's been drinking. Morgan moves her other hand from Root's knee to her shoulder, drawing her closer until they're both turned sideways on the sofa to face each other. Root bites at Morgan's lower lip and gets a sharp nip in return. Morgan uses the hand at her jaw to tilt her head back, leaning forward so she's bent over Root, holding her in place for the kiss which has somehow slipped quietly out of Root's control. Root pushes up into the contact, squirms closer, wraps one arm around Morgan's back, using the other to balance on the sofa cushion. She twists, trying to bring her legs up to straddle Morgan, but she holds her back with a hand against her collarbone. Root pushes, slides fingers across the skin left exposed by the low back of Morgan's dress, and then Morgan moves the hand at her jaw to the back of her neck and squeezes, still careful not to hurt, and Root goes still.

It's a vulnerable position, at least symbolically. Practically Morgan's not restraining her and Root has a knife and a taser in easy reach, but she still finds herself caught perfectly still, like it's only Morgan's hands that are holding her together.

"There's no rush," Morgan says. "We've got all night."

This is potentially untrue. Root lives, now, in a constant state of readiness, perpetually poised to drop everything at The Machine's behest. It's exhausting, but she has never felt more needed, more necessary, in her life. Morgan keeps a hand at her neck and kisses her slow and languid, stroking her palm down the curve of Root's rib cage, cupping her breasts, petting her shoulders. Root finds herself matching her breathing to her kisses, taking each retreat to draw air in. After a while Morgan moves from her mouth to her neck, trailing lips and tongue and teeth over the fragile skin of her throat, the soft hollow where her pulse still pounds rabbit quick.

Root tucks her fingers under the straps of Morgan's dress, tugging them down off her shoulders and ducking her head to return the assault in kind. Morgan agreeably leans away to shrug out of the top half of the dress, letting it pool around her hips and exposing a practical black silk bra and more muscles than Root expects. Root drags fingertips over her nipples where they've pebbled beneath the thin fabric, pinching and twisting until a firm grip encircles her wrists and pulls her hands away.

"As charmingly high school as this couch makeout is, I have a perfectly serviceable bed, and I'd really like to spread you out and fuck you, so we're going to need the space."

Root tries not to press her thighs together, tries not to squirm. If Morgan's little smirk is anything to go by, she doesn't succeed. Morgan lets her dress fall away as she stands, and kicks her shoes under the coffee table. Root takes a minute to unzip her boots, and by the time she gets to the bedroom Morgan's already turned down the blanket and spread out a handful of odds and ends on the night table. Dental dams, a blindfold, a coil of soft rope. Root grins.

"And you said you weren't kinky."

Morgan steps up behind her to unzip her dress and pull it down over her shoulders and hips. "I never said that. And I've talked to Shaw, I'm surprised this even comes up on your radar."

Root's brain does a little dance of 'she talks about me!', which she quashes for dignity's sake. Morgan unsnaps her bra, cups her breasts in her palms, arms encircling Root from behind. The height difference is more apparent like this, but Root still feels like she's being caged in and held up. Her underwear drags over her wetness with each movement she makes, and when Morgan digs her nails hard into the soft skin of Root's breasts and holds it Root's knees go a little weak. She pulls away and sprawls herself out on the bed, nice and horizontal where her traitorous joints can't betray her. She trails a hand down her own torso, dips fingers under the edge of her underwear.

"So," she says, watching Morgan stalk towards the bed. "How do you want me?"

Morgan taps a finger against her lips and Root arches her back deliberately. "What do you like?" Morgan asks.

Root blinks. "Believe me, sweetie, if I don't like something, you'll know."

"Not what I asked, Root," Morgan says evenly. Root bristles-- after the hospital and the cage her tolerance for patronizing kindness is deep in the negative numbers. Morgan rests a hand on her ankle. "Not saying it's an easy question, but supposedly you're a genius."

She unclasps her bra while Root struggles for a reply, tugs off her own underwear and sits on the bed beside Root's hip, fingers tracing idle patterns on the skin of her stomach. Root's mind spins over likely outcomes, gathers what little she knows about Zoe Morgan and compiles it frantically, searching for an output that will work within her parameters.

"do you want me to blindfold you?" Morgan asks. Root twitches, and her pulse speeds up. Fuck. "No, then. Ok, that's fine, that's off the table." And she leans over and nudges it literally off the nightstand, the black fabric falling silently to the carpet.

"Are you as good with your mouth in the bedroom as you are in other areas?" Root asks, and wants to fucking melt into the bed and disappear because surely she's capable of coming up with something moderately less awkward.

"Yes, but again, that's not a direct answer. You want my mouth on you? You want me to fuck you with my tongue? Or my fingers? Or would you rather a toy?"

"I--" Root doesn't say 'whatever you want'. She knows it's pointless trying an already failed solution. "Fingers," she says.

"Good," Morgan hums. "How do you feel about the rope?"

"Maybe I should be asking you," Root says. "I'm very good with knots."

"Maybe another time," Morgan says, clearly not meaning it.

Root drags her teeth showily over her bottom lip so that when she says "Yeah, another time," and means it, Morgan's too distracted to comment.

"I'll keep that in mind." Apparently Root's goddamn seduction skills have gone out the window. Possibly to crash and burn in a dumpster. She's already certain that she's going to wind up tied up for Zoe Morgan's pleasure within the next six months. She's already certain she's going to like it.

"So as much as I'm enjoying our chat, you should probably fuck me before I get bored," Root says. It comes out sharper than the teasing tone she was aiming for, but Morgan smiles down at her like she's made a challenging move in a game of chess and then she drags two fingers down over Root's clit and down until she's pressing inside in a slow, inexorable slide. She's careful about it, gentle but unyielding and Root doesn't quite know what to do with the force minus the pain. Her other hand presses down against Root's abdomen, holding her in place even as she pulls her fingers out and pushes back in, curling inwards until she hits the right place inside of her.

"You willing to hold on to the headboard, or is that too far?" Morgan asks like she's asking if Root takes sugar in her coffee.

"It's fine," Root says, glaring. Morgan's headboard is all decorative wooden curls, easy to tuck her hands into and hold on. Morgan fucks her through her first orgasm with just her hand, Root's underwear pushed to the side and Morgan sitting casually on the bed like she's just about to get up and leave. Root comes silently, pushing her head back into the pillow and twisting her hips up off the mattress.

While Root's still coming down and sensitive Morgan pulls her underwear off, and finally climbs fully onto the bed, rearranging them so she's tucked up close behind Root, both of them on their sides. Root's good ear is crushed against the pillow but she doesn't say anything, just tries to keep her head turned to watch Morgan in her peripheral vision. Morgan works her with two hands, three fingers inside of her from behind and the other hand wandering from Root's nipples to clit to throat with no discernable pattern. She still doesn't hurt her. It's still too close on the heels of her first orgasm to come again, and the steady push pull of Morgan's fingers inside of her starts to lose meaning. Root can't focus on the specifics of her body, can't distinguish one sensation from another, can't localize the pressures she's experiencing. The Machine is rambling irrelevant data and it's the only thing she can hear, everything fading into white noise and cottony static. She can feel the drumbeat of her heart everywhere. Her blood itches.

Morgan's hand tight in her hair and pulling her head up off the pillow cuts through some of the fog. "Root," she says, still calm. Everything feels like it's coming from far away underwater. "Root, look at me."

The Machine tells her to open her eyes, and she does it. Morgan is watching her intently. Root's on her back, and Morgan's still touching her, hand in her hair and a hand supporting the back of her neck.

"I'm fine," Root says, automatically. The Machine is worried, too.

"If this is your idea of fine I can recommend an excellent therapist and even better bar."

Root's vocal chords do something like laughter. "I've tried both," she says. "It doesn't help. People are fundamentally flawed. Understanding why doesn't change that."

"You must get all the girls. No wonder Shaw's so charmed."

"Did she tell you about the ten hours--"

"Yes. Listen, if I let go are you going to stay with me?"

Root actually takes a few seconds to think about it. "Just don't'... go anywhere," she says, trying to duck her head but coming up against the resistance of Morgan's hand in her hair. Morgan carefully disentangles her fingers and guides Root's head down to the pillow. Root curls into her, pressing her face against her neck and biting absently at the skin there and tasting the chemical spice of expensive perfume. Tucking a hand in the hollow of her rib cage, she matches their breathing together. Morgan-- or maybe this is the sort of thing that puts you on a first name basis-- Zoe pet's her head and shoulders like soothing a nervous cat.

"I'd like to get you off," Root says into the curve of Zoe's shoulder. "I have it on good authority I'm great at it."

"Shaw is not a good authority," Zoe says. "I know more about her masochistic streak than I ever wanted to and its indirectly your fault."

Root huffs. "I have fucked people who aren't Shaw."

"Yes, you can use your mouth. Ok if I pull your hair?"

"Preferred, actually," Root says.

Root settles herself between Zoe's legs, stretched out on her stomach with her feet hanging off the end of the bed. Zoe doesn't so much tug on her hair as she does use it to hold Root in place, and Root slips easily into working her tongue and lips against Zoe's cunt, the ache in her jaw like a good stretch and each little gasp from Zoe like a perfectly written piece of code. It takes a while for Zoe to come, but Root finds herself content to offer herself up for as long as needed. When Zoe finally shutters out a soft cry and coaxes Root back up to the pillows Root's mind is feeling clearer than it has all night, and she's aware of her body without being hyper-conscious of each movement and sensation.

Zoe strokes her arm, wraps her fingers around her wrist and holds on.

"So that's what it takes," she says.

"Hmm?"

"To settle you down. Your heart rates back to something less alarming."

"Oh," Root says, surprised. It's only now that she realizes she can't feel her blood pounding throughout each limb.

"Next time I'm going to see how you do with rope bondage," Zoe continues. "I'm pretty sure it's either going to go really well or really poorly, but that's what we have the knife for."

Root perks up. "But what do we have for if it goes poorly?"

"Shush," Zoe says, poking her nose. Root scrunches up her face in protest.

"Besides," she says. "Who says this time is over? I feel like a grand total of two orgasms is just shameful on everyone's part. Neither of us want that kind of mark on our record."

Zoe stares at her, bemused, then shakes her head. "Alright, come on then. Up on your knees. Also, you should probably let me know your safeword."

When Root grins, it's almost entirely genuine.


End file.
